


Closing the Distance

by SailorChibi



Series: Slave AU [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Big Brother Mycroft, Getting Together, Implied Child Abuse, M/M, Mycroft's side of the story, Prompt Fic, Slave Trade, commission, implied sexual child abuse, mentions of slave!Sherlock, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:06:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mycroft was only seventeen years old, his parents sold his younger brother into sexual slavery.</p><p>He's never stopped searching; finding Sherlock has become the only thing he lives for.</p><p>Until a certain detective inspector enters the picture.</p><p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/787010">Disconnect</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closing the Distance

**Author's Note:**

> I was commissioned by an anon to write a sequel to [Disconnect](http://archiveofourown.org/works/787010). Anon indicated they wouldn't mind hearing where Mycroft's been all this time, so here you go!

The flight leaves him feeling tired and grimy, but such petty things have never stopped Mycroft Holmes before. He steps off the private aircraft looking as immaculate as a man can look after twenty hours confined to one seat and walks briskly towards the black car that has been waiting for him. As he approaches, the door opens to reveal a petite, slender woman with dark hair. She's holding a file in one hand, which she keeps covertly pressed against her side to prevent any wandering eyes from seeing the contents. Their eyes meet and Mycroft feels a little swoop of nerves in his stomach at the confirmation he sees there. This has the potential to be it.

He nods to her in greeting and gets in, and after a moment she follows. As soon as the door is shut, she says, "I apologize for bringing you back from your meeting early, sir. But I felt that this was something you'd rather attend to yourself." She holds out the file.

It's unusual to be given paper, now when they try so hard to do everything by computer, and Mycroft takes it carefully. He flips up the cover and scans the first page, noting the details automatically as the car starts and they pull out into the late morning traffic. A large sexual slave ring has been discovered, operating right in downtown London. Scotland Yard has been on the scene since yesterday morning, and an up-and-coming detective inspector has been assigned to the case. They haven't caught all of the leaders yet, only a few are behind bars and they're not talking. That won't last long. 

"Send some of our interrogators," he says, flipping to the next page. What he wants to see is a detailed list of every slave who has ever passed through that organisation, but he knows he won't find that. Chances are the criminals weren't stupid enough to keep that kind of information, and if they were it's unlikely the list was ever maintained to the degree Mycroft would need. 

"Already done," she replies, waiting patiently while he reads the rest. There's not much, admittedly. Scotland Yard literally stumbled across the ring. They were looking for some petty thieves who had moved onto something a little bigger, a bank heist, and had instead discovered a cache of slaves who'd been ordered to rob the bank. Everything had exploded from there, and from what Mycroft can see it's already becoming something of a dilemma. If for no other reason than to stop things from becoming a political nightmare, his presence is required - and if it means he can get a better look at which slaves are there, so much the better. He closes the file and looks up at her.

"Thank you, Sarah," he says quietly. 

"It's Anthea," she responds, mouth quirked into the faintest of smiles.

"Anthea. I like it."

"So do I."

It takes about thirty minutes to reach the scene and Mycroft spends the time trying not to remember. This is when he wishes he had more control over his mind, because the memories - few though they may be - keep coming, like waves washing up on the shore. Sometimes he can't help marvelling over the fact that it's been nearly twenty years now. Twenty years. A lifetime, for some people, long enough that he's been told to give up several times over. But he can't. If there is one thing that he does not do, it is giving up. He will see this through to the end, and Anthea - bless her - has always understood that about her employer. Understood, and never condemned.

"Sir," she says softly, just before they get there, "I think it's a bad one."

His stomach tightens. "I know, but I have to be sure."

She nods just once, lips parting on a sigh, before the car stops and she opens the door. As always she is the first one out in the event that a someone might be waiting to stage an attack from above. He follows, moving aside so that she can shut the door, already enraptured by the sight of the absolute chaos that is the warehouse. Various members of Scotland Yard are milling around. Some of them are familiar, others aren't. Paramedics and photographers mix freely, cameras flashing in the faces of some of the poor slaves who were not wounded badly enough to warrant a trip to A&E and can't be coaxed away from the building. Every single one of them looks terrified and it makes bile rise in his throat, effort to keep a composed expression on his face. Some of the things he can deduce about what they've been through is enough to make wish he won't find what he's looking for, not here.

In spite of the daunting task, Mycroft wades into the crowd and leaves calm in his wake. A few of his most trusted men follow, directing Scotland Yard, banishing the journalists from the scene, and encouraging the slaves to retreat to somewhat safer ground. Anthea remains two steps behind as they enter the warehouse itself. Mycroft finds the man he's searching for immediately: a tall man with silver threading through his dark hair, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade stands surveying the building with a look of profound disgust. The fact that he is so plainly disturbed by what they're seeing warms Mycroft to him, because there are too many who wouldn't care in the slightest.

"Alright, you lot," Lestrade is saying, pointing to a group of officers, "you make sure that you take pictures of everything you see. We want to make sure this is properly documented."

"I'd like to see those pictures," says Mycroft.

Lestrade pivots to face him. "Sorry?"

"The pictures you're taking of the scene, I want to see them. Including the individual photos you'll be taking of the slaves." Mycroft reaches into a pocket, drawing out his identification papers. He doesn't always bother to show them, depending on what sort of a front he wants to put up. Sometimes he enjoys bending people to his will without them, simply because he can, and leaving them floundering when he departs. But there is something about the weariness in Lestrade's lined face that makes him want to make the man's life easier, not harder. 

"Oh. Right," Lestrade says after a lengthy examination of the papers. He returns them, casting a dubious glance at Mycroft. "Are you here to take over, then?"

"No," Mycroft says, slightly regretful. Officially the government tends not to acknowledge these flaws in the slave system. Sexual slaves are technically illegal, but that has done little to derail the determined. He could take over, but that would ultimately result in the whole mess being smoothed over. If Scotland Yard is forced to investigate, the media will be there along with them. It won't change anything, _but_.

Lestrade seems to soften slightly at this confirmation. "Okay. I'll let you know what we find, then." His warm brown eyes are curious, but he poses no more questions. Instead he turns back to the scene and steps away, striding towards the far end of the warehouse. He becomes entangled in a group of officers almost immediately, issuing calm orders in a low voice. Mycroft gazes after him for only a moment before he glances around.

The room is truly disturbing, a testament as to why sexual slavery is illegal. These are not conditions in which he would force an animal to live in, much less a human. Mycroft stares at what passes for bedding, a tangled mess of rotting, filthy blankets, and tries not to picture his little brother splayed out on top of that. His mind betrays him, showing him the lurid images, and he can't contain a shudder. Though he wants to stay and supervise, he turns on his heel and leaves. Anthea follows right behind him, silent but for the soft sound of her heels clicking against the cold concrete floor, and when they return to the car he notes the disgust in her face that even she can't hide.

"Let me know," he says wearily, "as soon as Detective Inspector Lestrade has those photos for me."

"Yes sir."

Mycroft goes home after that, because what else can he do? He enters his lavish, beautiful flat, decorated by a top of the line interior designer and staffed by a paid cook and a maid who only work when he's home - but since he'd returned unexpectedly this time, the flat is empty. It suits him. He loosens his ties and shucks off his jacket but does not bother with anything else. He sits down on his sofa with an expensive glass of whiskey and a lit cigarette and lets the memories wash over him.

\---

It is nearly three weeks before any mention of the photos comes up, and then it comes in the form of Lestrade himself, entering Mycroft's office so slowly that it's like he expects to be bitten for his efforts. "Hello," he says awkwardly in response to Mycroft's surprised look. "I know I could've sent these to you through the official channels, but it would've been another few weeks and I thought - well, you just seemed like you really wanted to know. So here." He slides the folder out from under his arm and comes forward just far enough to place it on the edge of the desk.

"Thank you," Mycroft says, recovering quickly and wondering why Anthea didn't alert him to the detective inspector's presence. "It was not necessary for you to come all this way, Detective Inspector, but... thank you." The words are a poor, inadequate excuse for the gratitude he feels. He's done a little research and it turns out that Lestrade is a competent man. He's been working his way up through the ranks of NSY slowly but surely, but he's never let it go to his head: he has taken on cases that would've made more than a few detectives turn tail and run just for the potential political quagmire. 

"You're welcome," Lestrade says with a faint smile. In the dim light he looks tired, his cheeks sallow with hunger and eyes heavy with exhaustion. The ring has been taking up all of his time, literally.

"Dinner." The word is out before Mycroft can stop it.

Lestrade pauses and raises a confused eyebrow. "Sorry?"

"To thank you for coming all this way, allow me to buy you dinner." Mycroft stands up, barely sparing a glance for the paperwork still covering his desk. He picks up the folder, his curiosity burning too strong to leave it behind now. Before Lestrade can offer a token protest, he says, "It's clearly been at least three to four days since you last had anything substantial. And I don't count the pitiful excuse for tea and coffee that NSY offers as a meal, so possibly even longer than that. You haven't changed your clothing in at least five days, nor have you shaved." His eyes skirt the beard covering the lower portion of Lestrade's face. "You've been spending all your time on this case, and I - please."

For a moment Lestrade just stares at him, lips pursed in his thought. Slowly, he nods. "Alright then. Dinner. I do have the night off, as it turns out. Donovan told me that if I return before eight tomorrow morning she's going to knock me out and tie me down."

Sally Donovan, Mycroft remembers, a fierce young woman who'd been nearly matching Lestrade in terms of promotions. He offers a tight smile and gestures for Lestrade to leave first before following. The car is, as always, waiting. Even though it's rude, instead of engaging in conversation Mycroft can't resist opening the folder. He is met with the image of a young child, probably no more than ten years old, with scarring on her face. Too young, and wrong gender besides. He flips to the next one, and then the next, and while a distant part of his mind takes note of the atrocities he is able to focus on why each person is not the one he is searching for. Every photo is of someone too young, too old, wrong gender, not right. 

When he gets to the end, he goes back to the beginning and scans them again a second time just in case. By the time they arrive at the restaurant he is thoroughly convinced that his brother is not amongst them. The revelation is both a boon and a curse, a heavy weight settling on his heart as they head inside. Lestrade shoots him curious looks as they sit and the waitress comes over with menus; he orders them both drinks before sending her away and it occurs to Mycroft, somewhat belatedly, that Lestrade sees more than most people do. He meets that inquisitive gaze squarely, the taste of whiskey on his tongue, and waits for the first question to come. It doesn't take long.

"Who is it?" Lestrade says quietly. "I gather he or she wasn't there, judging by the look on your face."

"My brother. My little brother," Mycroft corrects himself automatically. Lestrade remains quiet, and he finds himself continuing: "My parents sold him into slavery when he was only ten years old. I was away at university at the time, and by the time I arrived home he was gone."

Old hurt stings anew, the bitterness freshly spoken. God but he'd been enraged when he found out what his parents had done. He'd railed against the both of them, prompting a shouting match the likes of which the Holmes estate had never seen before - or since, considering that Mycroft had not been home since that day. After both his mother and father had refused to express even a sliver of regret for what they'd done, he'd walked out and never looked back.

"And since the sale of a child into slavery is illegal before the age of thirteen, he was likely sold into sexual captivity," Lestrade murmurs, looking caught between disgust and sympathy as he sips at his whiskey. 

"Precisely. I was never able to find out the exact details of the sale. My father burned the documents before I returned home, and he kept no other records." Mycroft sighs. "I have been searching since that day, but with no official routes to follow..."

"That's a long time to be searching," says Lestrade.

"Twenty years."

His eyes widen slightly. "A _very_ long time."

"I know he could be dead," Mycroft says, because that's what they all say. 

"But you have to try." Lestrade dips his head in a nod, fingers tracing the damp edge of his glass. "I understand. I think it's commendable. I know that the slave trade works for a lot of people, but when it comes to kids... it's just not on, you know? I can't imagine finding out that my parents had decided to sell one of my sibs."

"They always disliked him. He asked so many questions. He was eternally curious about every little detail and from the very beginning he drove my mother insane. Sometimes literally, I think. He never understood the value of being quiet, or why it was important to learn etiquette, or why he should care about making the family proud. His grades at school were atrocious because _he_ didn't care. He just wanted to know about everything, and he didn't understand why other people would test him on that knowledge." Mycroft closes his eyes briefly. His head swims. He doesn't know why he's still talking, why he's saying all of this to a stranger when he hasn't spoken about this to anyone in years.

"Do you have a picture of him? I don't always get the slave cases, but I could keep an eye out..."

His hand moves automatically, sliding into his waistcoat and drawing out the small leather wallet he keeps on his person at all times. Several of the men he works with all think that he carries money or something equally ridiculous - there's an office pool, even, not that they'll ever know the truth - but this is something far more valuable. The photograph he takes out and slides across the table is of a child, small and slender, with a head of messy dark curls that tumble across bright eyes. Lestrade inhales sharply as soon as he catches a glimpse, his jaw tightening, and Mycroft knows what he's thinking because it's a thought that he's already had many times over. 

It's the picture of a child that would appeal to far too many people.

"If you find him -" Mycroft says.

"You'll be the first to know, Mr Holmes, I swear."

"Mycroft, please."

Lestrade's head comes up. "Mycroft," he repeats after a slight hesitation. "You can call me Greg."

The events of the night blur together after that, only the burn-smooth taste of good whiskey prevailing, and when Mycroft wakes up the next morning he's been poured into his own bed with no real memory of how he got there. His head is aching, a throbbing right behind his left eye that means any paperwork is going to be tremendously painful to work through, and his shoes have been taken off. There's two pills and a glass of water on the stand, a bucket on the floor, and the photo is right beside his pillow. A note's been placed over it, written in unfamiliar handwriting.

_I'll keep an eye out._

\---

After negotiating an agreement between two rather affluent members of the royal family, Mycroft is done. He's not even all that tired, he's just _done_. With his job, with trying to work with people who have the mental attitude of toddlers and the tantrums on top of that, with the world in general. He doesn't storm back into his office so much as he walks very calmly, a sign to all that it is best to merely get out of his way, where he closes the door behind him. The sole occupant, Anthea, glances up at him with an amused quirk of the lips. She's sprawled in his chair, looking like she belongs there, dark hair undone in a sprinkling of curls that always makes his heart ache from memory.

"Tell me I don't have anything else planned," he says, glancing away casually. An uninformed observer might've taken the move as innocent, but there's no need to look at her to know that Anthea knows exactly why he averted his gaze. He's taught her well, building on the raw skill she already possessed.

"Sorry, sir. I'd love to tell you that, but unfortunately it turns out that you have a dinner meeting," she tells him sympathetically. "And I'm not sure it's one that you can afford to miss."

"Of course not," he mutters, setting his briefcase down and fetching his umbrella. "Who is it with?"

Before she can respond there's a knock on the door. The look that Mycroft sends her borders on desperate and she smiles in response, rising gracefully and gliding over to the door to open it slightly. She has a quiet conversation with whomever waits on the other side, one that he doesn't bother trying to listen to, before she eases it shut again. "We should go now, sir. I think that word has spread that your meeting is over with, and I'm pretty sure that I just saw Smith waiting out in the hallway."

Mycroft grimaces: if there is anyone he does not want to be speak to it's Zachary Smith. Fortunately, it is a little known fact that there is more than one way out of his office. It's a necessity for someone who comes under as much scrutiny as he does, considering the often volatile nature of his job and the enemies he has made and will continue to make, but he's never appreciated it more than he does right then when he follows Anthea through the wall and the passage swings shut behind them. He envisions Smith sulking in the corridor for the next several hours and realizes that his mood has improved considerably already.

In the car, Anthea broaches the subject of his meeting with the royal family and he forgets all about asking her who his next meeting is with. She doesn't bring it up, doesn't brief him on anything, and they chat companionably until the driver pulls up in front of a little restaurant he's never been to before. As he gets out, he realizes that it is more of a café than anything. He turns to Anthea, confused, and only grows more bewildered when she just grins at him and shoves his umbrella into his hands before she shuts the door. The car peels away and leaves him standing on the pavement, and then there's really nothing to do but go inside and see what this is all about.

He enters, eyes sweeping the café, and at first he doesn't see anyone he recognizes. And then he does, and his heart skips a beat at the same time that Lestrade catches sigh of him. The man grins, the exact same grin that Anthea was just wearing, and beckoned. Mycroft walks over to him slowly, feeling befuddled. It's not an emotion he is accustomed to, and it must be obvious because Lestrade starts chuckling. "I guess we surprised you, hmm? I have to say, _I_ was surprised when that lovely assistant of yours mentioned that you had free time tonight. I was expecting her to make me an appointment a month down the road."

"Anthea is... exceptionally skilled at organizing my calendar," Mycroft says carefully, wondering just what she might've cancelled in lieu of this appointment. It's unlike her, but then she does her mischievous side. He sits down, setting his umbrella against his thigh. "Was there something in particular you needed to discuss with me?"

"What? Oh, no. No." Lestrade's expression softens slightly, tinges of embarrassment turning his cheeks a fetching shade of pink. "I'm sorry, I haven't found anything yet. I guess that's why I wanted to meet with you - to let you know that I'm still keeping an eye out. I, um, guess that was probably silly of me. Your assistant could've passed that message on."

"That's alright. I could use a break." He's shocked to find out that he's being honest. It's the truth. He _does_ need a break. Badly.

"Oh, well then. Great." Brightening, Lestrade sips from his water before he clears his throat. "I thought this time I could be the one to buy you dinner. Repay you for the delicious meal from last time."

Mycroft blinks at him. "That... sounds fair," he says carefully.

"It's nothing special," Lestrade adds. "I'm afraid I can't afford high quality fare."

"Actually..." Mycroft trails off and looks around the café for the first time. It's a quiet place, intimate, with no tables larger than those seating four people. There are no waiters or waitresses, patrons approach the counter to order or pay, but that only adds to the personal atmosphere. Lestrade's chosen a table towards the back, well out of the way of any other customers. He looks back at Lestrade. "I really like it."

Lestrade's smile is quick and bashful. "Did you want to get something to eat?"

"Not yet." Hunger is the last thing on his mind; he needs to relax for a while first. He casts about for a suitable topic of conversation and comes up with, "How have your cases been going?"

"Good. Like I said, I haven't seen anything new from what we talked about before."

"I meant... other than that."

"Oh. Well, in that case, you should've seen this bloke we had to fish out of the Thames the other day..."

\---

After that they begin meeting at least once a month, if not more, and although conversation always starts out with the search it quickly deviates into other areas. Lestrade turns out to possess a wicked sense of humour that he doesn’t hesitate to share, and more than a few times Mycroft finds himself laughing outright. He always comes away from those hours with a lightened heart, and more than once he catches Anthea watching him with that knowing smile she likes to wear on the rare occasion she thinks she is aware of something he’s not. He does not fail to notice that, no matter how busy his schedule gets, there always seems to be time for Lestrade, and one morning he finally questions it.

“I thought I was supposed to be in Japan this weekend,” he says, not lifting his gaze from his paperwork. The pile is as high as it’s ever been, but for some reason it doesn’t seem insurmountable.

“You were.”

“What changed?”

Anthea lifts her gaze from her ever present Blackberry at last, meeting his eyes without flinching. One of the reasons he’d kept her on, she never hesitated at the realization that he could read nearly everything about her with just one glimpse. She says, “Detective Inspector Lestrade is scheduled to have this weekend off. You two have a date for Saturday night.”

The word date flips his stomach and he drops his pen. “We’re not dating, Anthea.”

“Oh really? My apologies, sir. I was under the impression that _dating_ is when two people meet regularly for food and drinks and have a conversation.”

He stares at her. She smirks at first, but as the seconds drag by and he fails to speak her expression softens. “Sir, I realize that it might not be my place to say so, but… you could do with having someone else in your life. Detective Inspector Lestrade has been good for you. If I may speak frankly, I would advise you against doing anything that might change that. I think you’ll find you would miss him far more than you realize.”

“But I…” For possibly the first time in his life, Mycroft flounders. “I hadn’t… we were meeting because of my brother. Lestrade said he would investigate…” He’s never trusted the search to anyone outside of Anthea. The thought that he might have compromised it in some way, possibly hindered efforts, sits sour in the pit of his belly.

“And I’m sure he is,” she says gently. “But there’s no need for that to be the only reason you talk, is there? You can both search, you can support each other. It’s not only for your benefit, sir. You’ve been good for him too.”

Mycroft looks up sharply. “You’ve been into his file.”

“I have.” Entirely unapologetic, that’s Anthea. “I knew you had skimmed his file just enough to make sure he was not a threat, but I felt a more thorough approach was necessary when I realized how attached you were getting. There are things…” She gives her head a little shake. “He might not have told you yet, but you’re helping him more than you know. This goes both ways.”

She refuses to say any more on the subject, and short of reading Lestrade’s file – which, for some reason, he is reluctant to do – he gets no further answers. Mycroft puzzles over the subject for the rest of the week, right up until he walks into the café and sees Lestrade sitting at what has become ‘their’ table. It’s always available, and as he approaches he wonders if Anthea has a hand in that. Who is he kidding? Of course she does. It wouldn’t surprise him in the least to hear that she regularly bribes the owner to keep the table empty, just in the event he and Lestrade are free at the same time.

For once, there is no cheerful smile on Lestrade's face. If anything the man appears distracted, taking several seconds to respond and fiddling around with his fork even though he barely eats any of his food. Something is clearly wrong, and Mycroft can't resist trying to deduce what it might be. Normally he tries not to, it has the tendency to upset most people, but in this case he makes an exception. His eyes skate quickly over Lestrade's appearance, taking in the smallest of details: the stain on his shirt, the bags beneath his eyes, the scratch on his right cheek, the scruffs on his shoes. Lestrade notices him looking and smiles tiredly.

"Had a visit from my ex-wife yesterday," he says, not waiting for Mycroft to come to his own conclusions. "She's... god. Sometimes I don't think about her for a while and I forget what it was really like. But then I run into her, or she comes around looking for money, and all I end up thinking is how glad I am that I got out when I did."

This is new territory. Lestrade has never mentioned his ex-wife before, though of course Mycroft knows of her existence. "You did not part on amicable terms," he surmises, hoping it will encourage Lestrade to talk.

"Pretty much. I caught her cheating with the PE teacher from the school my niece goes to," Lestrade replies. "She broke it off with him and we might've been able to make things work, but she found out she was pregnant. I... couldn't deal with that and our marriage just sort of fell apart. She got married to the teacher, only it turns out that some leopards don't change their spots or so they say. He cheats on her regularly, from what she tells me."

"Does she want you to take her back?"

"No. Yes. I don't know, honestly." He shakes his head and drains the rest of his tea.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, Mycroft. Despite what you like to believe, you don't have control over everything. Just most of it." At last, a true smile quirks at his mouth. "Besides, it's in the past. She made her decision and I made mine, and we can't go back now. I'm not the person I used to be. I've changed." He looks across the table at Mycroft, their eyes catching and holding. "I'm happier now."

Mycroft's throat feels tight. He clears it. "I'm - that's good. Very good."

"Yeah," Lestrade says quietly, not looking away. "It is."

\---

Lestrade is a good cop, and it's unfortunate that good cops are the ones who most often find themselves in danger. When the initial call comes, Mycroft's heart drops straight through the floor. It is sheer chance that he is in London, as some of his meetings in France have been postponed, and he leaves the office with a haste that has his colleagues whispering. Anthea meets him at the car and they travel together to the hospital where Lestrade has been taken. When they get there, she disappears - presumably to discuss Lestrade's treatment options with the doctor - while Mycroft heads straight to Lestrade's room. He's half-expecting the man to be unconscious, so it's a surprise to see that Lestrade is awake and aware.

"Mycroft!" he says, eyes wide but with a pleased blush on his cheeks. "What're you doing here? Oh, wait, don't tell me. That tail you've had on me told you what happened, right?" He grins. It's an old joke by now, the idea that Mycroft has someone following Gregory Lestrade around, and Mycroft has never admitted that there may be more truth to it than Lestrade knows.

"Anthea told me," Mycroft admits, taking a seat in the chair that's been pulled up to the bed. 

"I see. Well, I'm glad you came to visit. You should've brought me food, though. Sharon was here and she brought me fruit." He makes an exaggerated face, though whether it's because of the fruit or his ex-wife is hard to say. "Fruit, honestly."

Mycroft smiles in spite of himself. "I'm sure that fruit is a most befitting gift for a detective inspector who brought the Stone family in."

"Oh, you heard." Lestrade grins wider.

"Yes. I haven't had time to go shopping for an acceptable fruit basket yet, unfortunately."

"Spare me." Lestrade makes another face and both men chuckle. He sobers quickly, adding, "Seriously, you didn't - have anything to do with this, did you? I mean, this isn't part of your attempts to find your brother by getting me noticed..."

The air of joviality vanishes quickly. Mycroft's mask slots into place in between one breath and the next, refusing to let on how harshly Lestrade's question hits. It had been tempting, at times, to dip his fingers into Lestrade's career and encourage the man's move up the ladder, help out with a case here and there. But he had always refrained, knowing that Lestrade would not appreciate any promotion that was not borne from his own hard work and merit. He says, the word coming out perhaps a shade colder than he intends, "No."

"Mycroft, fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He rubs a hand over his face, instantly contrite. "I didn't mean that. Well, I did wonder sometimes... But I know you wouldn't do that. You know me better than that."

"If you don't want to keep an eye out any longer -"

"No!" The word is vehement, silencing Mycroft in its forcefulness. Lestrade is sitting straight up, glaring. "No, I never said that and I never will. Even if you were the world's biggest arse, and obviously you're not because he's sitting right here in this hospital bed, I would never do that to you. Keeping an eye out for your brother costs me nothing and, who knows, it might someday bring him home."

When Mycroft says nothing, Lestrade looks at him more closely. “What’s wrong?” he asks gently.

“Nothing.”

“Come on. _I_ know _you_ better than that.”

Mycroft glances away, avoiding the curious gaze. He doesn’t know how to articulate the thoughts that have been steadily creeping up on him over the past few months. At first it was heartening to know that Lestrade was searching too, often taking cases involving sexual slavery just so that he would have a reason to search through the victims. But lately, he’s begun to wonder – is there a point to it? How long can he continue with a fruitless search? His brother could be dead by now, could be anywhere in the world. He thinks about Anthea’s words, about dating, and shuts his eyes.

“Mycroft,” Lestrade calls softly.

“I’m tired.” The two words tumble out without permission, as they often seem to do when Lestrade is around. “Every time another ring is broken up, or another slave is found, I find myself hoping – and it’s never him. My work is taking up more and more of my available time. I’ve barely had the time to see you over the past two weeks, my schedule has been so insane.” He doesn’t even know if they meet because of the search or because he just wants to see Lestrade. He lowers his head. “And I realize that you are getting more stressed… I just wonder, perhaps, it’s no longer worth it.”

Lestrade doesn’t say anything for a long time. Long enough that Mycroft almost, but not quite, gives in to the urge to squirm. He jumps when a hand comes down on his wrist unexpectedly and glances up. Lestrade is leaning forward stiffly, his spine arched in a way that means it’s uncomfortable. He slides his fingers around Mycroft’s wrist and pulls, refusing to straighten until Mycroft rises and steps closer, keeps pulling until Mycroft has the choice of either lifting his leg onto the bed or toppling over. From there it’s relatively easy to slip an arm around Mycroft’s waist and drag him down.

“Lestrade, really –”

“Greg.”

Mycroft pauses in the middle of fighting this undignified sprawl across a hospital bed that’s not really large enough for the both of them. He’s very aware that large parts of his body are pressed securely against Lestrade, though he tries not to think about it. If a nurse were to walk in, he’d be kicked out. He says, “What?”

“My name is Greg. I've told you that before, but you keep calling me Lestrade.”

That’s not entirely true, even if Mycroft only utters his first name in the privacy of his own bedroom. His lips sting, bitten raw, when he runs his tongue across them. “Greg.”

“There you go.” Greg pats him on the shoulder and hooks one leg over both of Mycroft’s, so that he’s effectively pinned. 

“Greg, what are you doing?”

“I’m making an executive decision to force you to rest, that’s what. You need sleep, and what better place to get it than in a hospital bed?” 

“But I have –”

“Shh, don’t want to hear it. Besides, you didn’t bring me a fruit basket so consider this your get well soon gift to me.”

Mycroft opens his mouth and then shuts it, realizing that he’s not sure how to argue that. Judging by Greg’s victorious smirk, he’s aware. 

“Go to sleep,” he says, triumphant, and puts his head down on the pillow with a satisfied wiggle. The feel of his breath washing across Mycroft’s ear and cheek is both comforting and distracting, and he stares up at the ceiling for quite some time before sleep finally takes over.

\---

"Alright, that's it, I can't take it anymore!"

To say that Mycroft is startled by Greg's unexpected appearance at his office is an understatement. He lifts his head from the email he's composing, blinking in surprise at the man standing in the doorway. "You've been released from the hospital?" he says, only realizing afterwards how incredibly banal that sounds. Clearly Greg's been released since he's here. "I thought you weren't getting out until tonight. I was going to pick you up with a car so you wouldn't have to take a cab."

"Oh for god's sake, shut up," Greg says, storming into the room. 

Mycroft blinks at him.

"You're just - damn you Holmes, I can't stop thinking about you. Do you know that everyone down at the Yard is teasing me like mad? They're saying I've got a rich boyfriend that I never bring around because I'm ashamed of them. Which, you know, fair point: I wouldn't want any of their weirdness rubbing off on you. But whatever, that's not why I'm here. I'm sick of this dancing around, Mycroft. Are you interested in having a relationship with me or not? Because I can't take any more of these mixed signals. One minute I could swear you want to jump me and the next I think all you care about is the search for your brother. Which is it?"

"I..." It seems to be happening more and more, finding himself at a loss for words. He pushes his chair back and rises. "I didn't mean to make you frustrated. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize." Rubbing a hand over his face, Greg sighs. "Look, I shouldn't have sprung this on you so suddenly. I just had a lot of time to think when I was trapped in that stupid hospital bed, and I -" He cuts himself off when Mycroft takes two steps towards him, bringing them as close together as they've ever been. His eyes, Mycroft discovers for about the hundredth time, are lovely. The exact shade of his favourite suit.

"I do like you," Mycroft says hesitantly. "I just - I have never dated anyone before."

"Ever?" Greg's eyes widen slightly.

"I was always preoccupied. I felt that anything that risked deflecting my attention from the search was a disservice to my brother, one that I could not afford."

"Mycroft -"

"But," Mycroft continues, ignoring him, "you're... different. You don't distract me, you... you _help_. No one has ever tried to help me before, except for Anthea and she gets paid to do it."

"Of course I help," Greg murmurs, placing a hesitant hand on Mycroft's cheek. "What happened to you and your brother was awful."

Mycroft's eyes flutter shut. "Yes, it was," he whispers, feeling a heavy weight lift from his heart: acknowledging, finally, that it was not only his brother who was wounded all those years ago. His parents had hurt him too, even if he had striven to ignore that in lieu of focusing on the search.

Greg kisses him then, very lightly. Mycroft leans into it just as Greg pulls away and they both chuckle, Mycroft a little wildly, his heart pounding. When the door slams open they both jump. 

It's Anthea. She looks wild, hair unkempt, her hand trembling around a white file.

"Sir," she says urgently, "Sir, they've found - it's him. It's Sherlock."

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/) \- I swear I don't bite. Unless you want me to.


End file.
